


She Was Such A Perfect Stranger

by 51stCenturyFox



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Bondage, Call Girl AU, F/M, Prostitution, Smut, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So let me guess. Your wife doesn’t understand you,” Natasha says teasingly, the first time she visits, trying to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head and her voice a million miles away from bored.</p><p>"She understands me more than most other people,” Stark says. “And she’s not even my wife.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	She Was Such A Perfect Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Идеальная незнакомка](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12007539) by [fandom_All_Avengers_and_MCU_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_All_Avengers_and_MCU_2017/pseuds/fandom_All_Avengers_and_MCU_2017), [littledoctor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledoctor/pseuds/littledoctor)



> Prompt from Avengerkink: A call-girl AU. _Natasha is a very expensive but talented Russian call girl, able to do what you want if you pay for it._
> 
> _I would like to see a night with each one of the men (Tony, Bruce, Clint, Steve, Thor and Loki), each of them having different desires._
> 
> Title is from the lyrics to [Time the Avenger](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vb1VoCirpPw), by the Pretenders

**Clint B.  
Periodic client. Her apartment**

“You. You are a fucking failure,” she tells him coldly, narrowing her eyes and extending a black patent-leather spike-heeled boot inches from his face as he kneels, naked and bound, on her polished wooden floor. “I can’t believe how worthless you are. You don’t even deserve to taste the bottom of this.”

“I’m so sorry, Mistress,” he breathes. “Everything is my fault, I know.”

“And why is it your fault?” Natasha grabs the back of his hair. “Why? Answer me!”

“Weak,” he says, ending on a moan. “So weak. I couldn’t resist.”

“That’s right. You’re so fucking weak!” She kicks up the boot, moves it closer, watching him pull against the restraints, neck tight, cock hard, biceps flexing against his bindings, trying desperately to reach her.

“I’m responsible,” he groans, sweat beading on his forehead. She backs off, heels tapping as she circles him, rears back with the whip, and strikes. He flinches, bucking his hips.

Finally she gives in, stands in front of him, extends her toe. “Lick it. Earn your redemption.”

So, just like always, he leans in...

And it’s not that it’s okay to break script, and...

The money's very, very good, but...

This time, Natasha unbuckles the straps holding back his powerhouse arms and he slumps forward, pressing his cheek to the floor. She sinks down, sits cross-legged in front of him and leaning in, skates a hand gently along the ridge of his shoulder blade, up to the nape of his neck.

“I don’t think it’s your fault at all. You have been punished enough.”

She sees Clint’s shoulders tense, then relax again, and his arm reaches out, his fingers curling around the toe of her boot.

“You are forgiven, do you understand me?” She waits a long time, until he nods under her fingertips.

 

Lovely art by LePeru. [Please leave her <3 here on her AO3 post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1153357).

**Bruce Banner  
** Standing appointment, every two weeks  
Random hotels, his choice 

He’s very modest; unassuming even. They have a standing, but he always calls to confirm, sometimes a few days ahead, sometimes a week.

“You sure Wednesday is still on?” he asks, sometimes sounding a little tense, worried, like she’ll change her mind, turn him away. Why would she change her mind?

“Of course, Bruce,” she always says. “I’m looking forward to seeing you.” And she actually does. It’s a tiny joy not to have to gear up in leather or doll up in a gown. He likes her to wear street clothes, and he digs white undies. He’s the kind of man who likes the girl next door -- the Mary Ann, not the Ginger. That’s what her mentor told her once about men, the Gilligan’s Island rule, she called it. True enough, for the vanilla ones.

“Me too,” he mumbles, before hanging up.

He likes it quiet and tender, lots of little touches and gentle strokes. Missionary, most of the time, mouthing the edge of her jaw softly, whispering her name. “Natasha. Oh, Natasha.”

Sometimes he does her from behind, nice and steady. Sometimes she’s on top. Bruce always _asks_.

“Would you mind if we...”

“Certainly, sweetheart,” she murmurs, changing position, giving his thigh a squeeze, his chest a caress. He’s nicely built, this one. Solid.

It’s routine by now, but in a good way, not boring. Stretched out naked on the bed after, his head resting against her breast, she plays with his hair and idly wonders again why he doesn’t have a wife. He seems like the husband type, but he’d looked a little horrified when she’d asked, once. (She’s curious that way.)

He doesn’t seem like most of her clients -- not rich, Natasha doesn’t think, judging by his off-the-rack suit pants and colorful shirts, though the hotels he books are nice enough. He says he works in a laboratory. She offers him a lower rate as a regular but he declines the offer.

“So,” he says, tapping the calendar function on his cell phone. “Wednesday after next, right?”

“As always,” she says, smiling, pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “Bruce, can I ask you something?”

He gives her a slow smile, puts away his phone. “Sure.”

“Why do you always call to confirm? More than once, even. I mean, you know I’m reliable by now, right?”

“Knowing I have you to look forward to,” he says, “...it keeps me calm.”

 

**Thor Odinson  
** Friday, 10:00 - one-time gig  
Hotel room arranged by client’s friend 

“You are very beautiful indeed,” he says, as she smiles at him from the doorway. She’s in a green satin teddy and dressing gown. The instructions were... specific.

“Thank you, Mr Odins- Thor,” and curses inwardly as she realizes her slip; he hadn’t told her his last name. But he doesn’t seem to notice as he opens his arms and she joins him on the bed.

 

“No cameras,” she’d warned his friend earlier, and she’d double-checked upon his arrival earlier to make sure he’d followed her rule. She’d even taken apart his walking stick.

“I do not have a _camera_ ,” he’d sniffed at her, as if she was dirt on his shoe. She didn’t care for his tone, but the money was unbelievable; he’d paid double her going rate for a three-way, and he didn’t even want a three-way.

“Have to check. Even if the other gentleman knows what’s going down, and you assure me that he does, I won’t be a party to blackmail. It’s a crime.”

“Prostitution is also a crime here,” the man had said.

“The way I do things, it’s a victimless one,” she’d replied. “And I plan on keeping it that way. You understand.” Sure, she was here on an open-ended visa courtesy of a highly grateful envoy to the UN, but that didn’t extend to diplomatic immunity.

 

She motions to Odinson to get him turned sideways on the bed, crawls over him like a cat, and unbuttons his shirt, letting her hair sift along his impressive bare torso like a curtain as she goes, putting on a show.

Christ, what a body. Granted, she can pick and choose given her reputation, but she ought to be paying _him_.

“Is this a special occasion?” She murmurs against his chest.

“My birthday,” he declares with a sunny, expansive smile.“Is this not a tradition?”

And it’s just...charming, really. She goes down on him, and he insists on returning the gesture, enthusiastically, which is unusual, but definitely not unpleasant, as surprises go in her line of work.

“I have a girlfriend, but she is in Vancouver at a conference,” Thor tells her. “She is a brilliant scientist.”

 _And a lucky one_ , Natasha thinks.

He wants her on top, and is almost reverent, the way he leans up to lick at her skin. She barely has to do any work; he’s gentle with her, but _strong_ , and as it turns out, that extends to his stamina, and he tires her out anyway, just keeping up. He’s also loud as hell.

He doesn’t glance at the cracked-open door to the closet. Not one time.

On parting, he kisses her hand, and what the hell is that, but he’s clearly a tourist from somewhere more polite than New York City. She shuts the door and shrugs the satin robe back over her shoulders as his friend emerges from his hiding place, cock out as he strokes it slowly.

“Kneel,” he demands, and this wasn’t on the menu either, but he’s paying double, and she’s amenably worn-out after pleasuring the birthday boy. But he doesn't even want her to touch him.

“Oh yes, oh _god_ ,” she moans throatily when his come hits her face, like bukkake is a revelation.

“Yes,” the man replies absently, with a flash of teeth, slowly smearing the cool stripe of semen across her cheek with a silk handkerchief and stuffing it back into his pocket before striding out.

Some days, this job was stranger than others.

 

**Anthony Stark  
** Random weekday call in, every few months, 3:00pm-ish  
Stark Industries headquarters 

“So let me guess. Your wife doesn’t understand you,” Natasha says teasingly, the first time she visits, trying to keep her eyes from rolling back in her head and her voice a million miles away from bored.

“She understands me more than most other people,” Stark says. “And she’s not even my wife.”

But Natasha knows who he is, of course; everyone does. The billionaire, and now he’s famous for wearing armor and flying into danger. He would have no problem finding supermodels to sleep with, even supermodels he can order around, so he must like the built-in guarantee that this won’t end up in Perez Hilton or a paternity court or just because it’s dirtier to pay for it.

She thinks he likes it because it's dirtier to pay for it.

Most of the wealthy men in her calendar are much the same. Bankers, venture capitalists, a couple of young guys flush with dot com wealth, and a musician who finger-bastes her once a month under rows of Grammy awards; sad fellow can’t get it up. They call her because she’s one of the best, and one of the most expensive, like ordering a bottle of shipwrecked Heidsieck. Something for the collection.

Tony Stark can definitely get it up. He likes being blown, sitting back in a chair, fingers sliding through her hair. “I fucking love red hair,” he whispers, shuddering against the pressure of her tongue.

He also likes her to ride him hard on his huge desk, his suit trousers kicked into the center of the floor (he leaves his shirt on though, always.) He also never shuts up; there's a running commentary on the action, every time.

Today he fucks her against the window, tits pressed against the cool glass, so high up she thinks vertigo might kick in. It doesn’t. She doesn't have to fake much that time; she almost comes. On top of the world. No wonder the powerful enjoy views like this.

“Why in your office?” she asks. She doesn’t mind, but she’s used to hotels, or the two apartments paid for by two bankers who know nothing of the other.

“You're my reward for showing up to board meetings,” he says, and she believes him.

 

**"Steve"  
** Appointment, this Saturday night  
Dinner and dancing (???) 

“Is this...Miss Romanoff?” the voice on the phone asks, and he sounds incredibly nervous.

“Yes. This is. Who am I speaking with? Mr --”

“Uh... Steve. I want to um, arrange a date. Somebody gave me your card, and I...just...”

“That’s fine,” she says, calmly, trying to put him at ease. “What are you interested in doing on our date, Steve?” Probably a fake name. She could reel off a checklist, but she can practically hear him sweating over the phone already and she's pretty sure he'd probably drop it.

He stumbles a little, explaining, but Natasha gets the gist. She’s always up for a bit of roleplay. She’d wanted to act, once; she’d taken courses at a method school in the Village, but figured out the odds of making it were pretty slim. If she was going to be bent over a casting couch anyway she might as well be getting a few grand instead of a part as Oblivious Deli Customer or the woman who finds a body in an alley in the first two minutes of some police procedural. (Which she did once, under her SAG name, Natalie Rushman. It was a very good shriek.)

“Lovely,” she says, slipping into character. “I’ll see you then.”

The hair isn’t difficult; hot rollers and two pins. Chanel’s Rouge Allure on her lips. High heels. The accent is a little tougher, but she’s seen enough movies to nail it pretty closely, and he’s not from there anyway.

Dinner first, and he pulls her chair out and she asks him about his week. He's not shy at all as he tells her about his most visits to museums and she nods enthusiastically, asking questions, smiling at him over her salmon. He's surprisingly cultured for a pro athlete, not to mention polite. (He just has to be an athlete, has to. She'd bet on it.)

Then dancing, at El Morocco. It’s changed since it became famous, of course; normally it’s another themey shitshow disco blaring reggaeton but they have a special 1940s night, and they’re not the only ones in costume.

He wants to dance all night, pausing only for orange juice (which is surprisingly refreshing when you dance all night.) He teaches her a simplified Lindy Hop and she shows him how to slow-dance without stepping all over her Louboutins. She keeps up a steady stream of patter, not really knowing what he wants to hear.

Before he tucks her into a taxi, Steve bends to kiss her.

Natasha never kisses her clients.

But she makes an exception, just this once.

**Author's Note:**

> The requester wanted domination, a man cheating on his wife just for fun, Thor being watched/Loki watching (I took liberties with that one.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [She Was Such A Perfect Stranger ART - Clint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153357) by [LePeru (Nizah)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nizah/pseuds/LePeru)




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